Shev (8 page)

“I almost got you to laugh aloud.”

She molded her features into their normally neutral schoolmarm position. “You make me sound dour, my lord. I assure you I am not.”

“Perhaps your happiness only reveals itself when I’m not around.”

“Would it not seem odd if I walked around smiling all day?”

He thought back to the brief smile she’d given him moments ago and the resulting nail marks scored into his palm.
Dangerous
might be a more appropriate description.

“Perhaps you are right. Walking around with a frown is far less odd.” Suppressing a grin, he held out his arm. “Shall we rejoin the banshee and stable master?”

“I do not frown all day either.” She nodded at his arm. “Thank you, but I’m not a genteel lady for you to escort about.” She swept her hand in front of them. “After you, my lord.”

Shev slowly lowered his arm. In the logical part of his mind, he agreed with her. A marquess would never offer his arm to a member of his staff—unless the individual was injured or incapacitated in some way. Even then, it was doubtful he would offer physical assistance if other servants were about to take care of the situation. Which they would be. They were always nearby.

But the flesh and blood part of him wanted nothing more than to feel the soft curve of her breast along his arm and the swoosh of her skirts against his leg. He wanted her close enough that he could finally detect her scent, hear the slow release of her breath.

He wanted the impossible. She knew it. He knew it. Even his mother knew it, given the stern looks she’d been sending his way of late.

“Have it your way, Miss Crawford.” Striding away, he followed Jacqueline’s excited chatter until he found her and Finn peering into one of the larger stalls. Even after Anne’s rejection, he still kept one ear on the conversation around him and another on the governess’s approach. An eternity seemed to pass before he felt her presence behind him.

Chapter Ten

Anne’s insides roiled like boiling water in a kettle. One moment she stood strong in her conviction not to give in to her inappropriate feelings for Lord Shevington, and in the next second, she hovered over an abyss of indecision.

If only he weren’t so handsome, intelligent, amusing, and heartbreakingly considerate of his daughter’s feelings, she could overcome her attraction. Push it away to the farthest reaches of her mind and simply admire him for having the qualities of a good man.

But he was all those things and more. The barrier her mind had erected—the one that guided her along the jagged path of right and wrong—had begun to tremble and crack, allowing bands of brilliant, invigorating light to shine through.

She was drawn to those bands in the same way a ship’s crew who had dwelled at sea for far too long sought out a speck of land.

A gasp rent the air, forcing Anne’s inner struggle to the background. She paused behind Lord Shevington, Jacqueline, and the stable master. The trio observed something inside a large stall.

Anne moved to see what had drawn their attention when Jacqueline turned to her suddenly and exclaimed, “A pony!”

All Anne’s wariness, concern, and self-recrimination vanished at the sight of one beaming smile from a troubled little girl. Without thought, she stepped forward and gathered Jacqueline’s long, wavy hair and draped it down her back before settling her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

Inside the massive stall, a mare and her newborn stood with their noses together. The baby’s coat was a deep, impenetrable black but for the adorable white patch above its left knee.

Lord Shevington peered down at his daughter. “He needs a name.”

“He doesn’t have one yet?”

Before the marquess could answer, Finn jumped in. “His lordship wouldn’t hear of it. Informed us all that he was bringing someone special to Fenmore to do the honors.” He winked at Jacqueline and received a scowl from her father. “You’re a lucky young lady. His lordship doesn’t allow just anyone to name his prized horseflesh, and this young buck is going to be a champion. Mark my words.” Finn lowered his voice. “Make it a strong name, Miss Jacqueline.”

The girl’s face puckered in concentration. Anne could almost feel the girl’s desire to pick the perfect name. It was obvious she’d never been entrusted with such a task before, and she wanted to get it right.

Curious, the newborn tiptoed to where Jacqueline stood with her face pressed between two wooden slats. The closer he came, the broader the girl’s grin grew.

Remembering what she’d been taught, Jacqueline smoothed her small hand down the newborn’s narrow black nose. When he made to shy away from her touch, she coaxed him forward with melodic words in her native tongue.

He stepped closer again, and Jacqueline rewarded him with a smile.
“Petit courageux.”

Brave little one.

Pride wedged itself in Anne’s throat. Only a short while ago, Jacqueline balked at going near the horses for fear of scaring them. And now, she praised a newborn for being courageous.

Anne glanced at Lord Shevington and found him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. The same pride she felt shone in his dark eyes. She smiled, enjoying the moment with him. His nostrils flared and his chest rose. His head slowly angled her way.

Her attention dropped to his mouth. A mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. Need fanned through her, heating her most intimate places and making her pulse spiral out of control.

Turning to her more fully, he lifted a hand toward her cheek.

“Prewitt,” Jacqueline announced, oblivious of the inferno igniting at her back.

The marquess dropped his hand to his side, and the look he sent Anne made it clear they would discuss what had almost happened—later.

“Prewitt, you say?”

“Oui
.
”
Jacqueline sent a tentative glance toward the stable master. “Is that a strong name?”

Finn deferred to Lord Shevington. “What do you think, my lord? Is Prewitt brawny enough for your champion-to-be?”

Jacqueline lifted worried eyes to her father.

“Indeed, it is. A fine, brawny name.”

With those four words, he won over Jacqueline’s trust. And Anne’s heart.

* * *

Unlike their previous meals together, this evening’s dinner turned out to be a lively affair.

Jacqueline regaled her grandmother about the newborn and listed all the different names she’d considered before deciding on Prewitt. And how she and Prewitt were already fast friends. The marchioness listened with the rapt attention of a besotted grandparent, encouraging the girl to continue her story with expertly delivered questions.

Lord Shevington did his part to keep the conversation going, making outrageous comments and forcing his indignant daughter to correct him. For the first time since joining this household, his lordship seemed genuinely amused by his daughter’s antics. His indulgent, I’m-of-superior-intellect expression never made an appearance. Not once. Nor did he pick at Anne to see what type of reaction he could elicit.

As for Anne, she listened, allowing the normality of the evening to wash over her. Partway through the meal, she realized the pleasant sensation she was experiencing was happiness. Unrestricted happiness.

And in a dangerous moment, she understood what it would feel like to have a family of her own. Something she had never allowed herself to think upon before.

The realization should have sent her ricocheting back behind the shield of her reserve, but it didn’t. In fact, the knowledge warmed her. Settled her. Branded her.

One day, she would have a husband, a child—or two, a mother-in-law, a home of her own, and more. She would have a life where she looked forward to every waking hour. Where she would play with her children and lie in her husband’s loving arms, all night, every night.

An image of her and Lord Shevington tangled in luxurious sheets and straining limbs burned in bright detail in her mind’s eye. She didn’t shy away from the forbidden fantasy. Something within her had shifted today. Something she couldn’t let go.

Acceptance, she thought. Acceptance of her heart’s desire. “Dear God, I love him,” Anne whispered. She loved Lord Shevington—Marcus. How it had happened in such a short amount of time, she didn’t know. After all, she still did not know him all that well. But the simple act of admitting her feelings aloud lifted the last dregs of uncertainty from her mind.

However, Anne’s pragmatic side recognized that she wasn’t the first governess to lose her heart to the master of the house, nor would she be the last. She would cherish the time they had together. At the end of her three months, she would search for employment elsewhere and pray for the strength she needed to survive a life without him.

After retiring for the evening, Anne pulled the pins from her hair and brushed the fine strands with long, even strokes. She loved this time of the night when the household quieted, her thoughts grew sluggish, and her muscles relaxed their brutal hold.

Lost in the repetitive motion, Anne failed to hear the click of her door opening and the soft tread of footsteps that followed. She didn’t become aware she was no longer alone until she felt a gentle tug on her hair.

Anne jolted at the contact.

“Jolis cheveux.”

She swiveled around to find Jacqueline, standing barefooted in her nightclothes, a look of wonder on her sweet face.

“Is everything all right?” Anne asked.

“I could not sleep.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Nurse was snoring.” She ran her fingers over Anne’s hair again, as if she’d never seen a woman’s hair loose before.

Anne toyed with one long strand of Jacqueline’s locks. “Has anyone ever told you that you have very pretty hair?”

Jacqueline shook her head.

“May I brush yours?”

The girl began to nod, then hesitated. “I have knots.”

“That’s all right. I do too.”

She looked at Anne’s shiny, smooth hair with skepticism.

Anne laughed. “Not now, silly goose.”

Rising, Anne held out her hand. “Come, let’s climb onto the bed. It’ll be more comfortable and I can reach you better.”

They sat cross-legged, one in front of the other. Anne untied the ribbon holding Jacqueline’s unruly hair in place. After unwinding the thick plaits, she began brushing in long, hypnotic strokes.

After several minutes of silence, Anne asked, “Do you miss doing this with your mother?”

“
Maman
did not like my knots.”

Regret stung the backs of Anne’s eyes. Regret that Jacqueline had been denied this simple pleasure. Regret that she herself had lost her mother at an age not much older than Jacqueline.

When Jacqueline’s head began to droop, Anne set aside the brush and scooped Jacqueline up into her arms. Jacqueline’s eyelids fluttered. “All is well.” Anne kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

Jacqueline snuggled closer, not a care in the world. It had been a long while since Anne had held a child this way. With Jacqueline, the action felt as natural as breathing.

Thankfully, when Jacqueline entered earlier, she hadn’t closed the door all the way, which allowed Anne to maneuver the sleeping girl through the narrow opening.

The moment she stepped into the corridor, she came face-to-face with the Marquess of Shevington. He leaned against the wall, a hard look on his chiseled features, his body tense. Exhilaration like nothing she’d ever experienced before quickened her pulse. Thank goodness she’d had a firm hold on Jacqueline, or she would have dropped her precious bundle.

“May I help you, my lord?”

He let out a pained chuckle. “God forgive me, yes.”

When he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, saying nothing more, Anne took that as her cue to leave. “Pardon me, my lord. I need to take Jacqueline back to the nursery.”

She scooted around him as if he were a rabid dog and hastened away. Even though she’d made this journey only once before, her feet carried her to the nursery with absolutely no help from her mind. For her thoughts stayed trapped in a moment of time, centered on a tortured marquess.

Tortured, yes. That was the exact emotion she saw blazing in his eyes for the brief second their gazes had connected. So many questions gurgled to the surface. Too many for her to grasp before the next deluge hit.

After she had settled Jacqueline into her bed, Anne hurried back to her bedchamber. She practically skidded around the final corner and came to a stop. It was then that one question elbowed all the others aside.
Why hadn’t he stayed?

The empty corridor stretched before her, desolate and gray. In the logical part of her mind, she knew his defection was for the best. Had he stayed, they would more than likely have made love. She could no longer deny her body’s longing for a deeper, more intimate connection with him. And he wanted her too. She had seen the need burning in his eyes before he’d turned away.

Though she had little experience with such matters, she had no doubt that one night in his arms wouldn’t be enough. Before long, his entire staff would know about their late night activities, and her reputation would be in shreds.

Suddenly chilled to the bone, Anne entered her bedchamber with the same enthusiasm as a prisoner on her way to the gallows. She hovered just inside, peering at her surroundings through a fog-stained lens. The happiness she’d felt earlier was nowhere to be found. She’d been a fool to believe she could walk away from his lordship unscathed.

They hadn’t even made love yet, and here she was, maudlin and hurting. How would she ever survive him if he welcomed her into his bed—over and over? She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

A strong arm snaked around her waist. Anne’s breath caught in the back of her throat. For a brief moment, she thought of the masculine silhouette she’d seen in the woods on the day of her arrival. Of the overwhelming unease that had pushed her back toward safety. In the next instant, all thoughts of danger fled. Somehow she knew,
knew
the man holding her from behind was Lord Shevington.